


Off The Deep End, Part One

by cuddyclothes, damigella, Flywoman, Menolly



Series: Chain Fics/Collaborations [3]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unrequited Love, chain fic, sick!House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-27 01:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 9,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12071337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddyclothes/pseuds/cuddyclothes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/damigella/pseuds/damigella, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flywoman/pseuds/Flywoman, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menolly/pseuds/Menolly
Summary: When House is trapped in a hallucinatory island paradise, Wilson has to help bring him out of it, by any means necessary.When House awakens, unwelcome revelations ensue.Written in 2011. AU branching off from 7X23 "Moving On."Written for the "Where Do We Go From Here?" chainfic challengeAdditional authors: cellista_in_c, pgrabia. luridlurker





	1. Written by Flywoman

House returns to consciousness slowly, swimming up through many layers of murky memories and heavy haze. There is a faint, rhythmic murmur at the edges of his hearing that gradually grows louder as he surfaces. For a moment he can't place the sound - it could be the intake of the hospital ventilation system from his bed in the ICU or the muted roar of waves approaching a bright beach. He can feel the familiar dull throb in his right thigh and a warm pressure surrounding the fingers of his left hand.


	2. Written by Menolly

He opens his eyes and glances down at his hand, a crab is tickling his fingers, probing to see what this strange creature on the beach is. He watches the crab for a few seconds, fascinated by the way it moves but then shakes it off and sits up.  
  
The sun is beginning to set, the warmth of the day giving way to a cooler evening. House gathers his cane up and gets to his feet, he limps off, thigh protesting at the tough going in the sand.  
  
He is staying in a small place, just off the beach. There's not much there, just a place to rest at night. He spends his days on the beach, watching the ocean, drinking in the heat of the sun. He has no phone, no laptop, no internet, no television. As a child he'd dreamed of being a castaway on a desert island, this is the next best thing.  
  
He knows he should be sorry about what he did, and he does regret that he scared Cuddy. He doesn't regret letting out his anger, his hurt, everything that had been building since the infarction, no, truthfully since before that, since the first time he'd been locked outside on a cold night.  
  
He shakes off the memory of Wilson, standing there, cradling his injured hand. He'd tried to protect him, got him out of the car. Of course the klutz had to go and get in the way again. Wilson had always tried to get between House and trouble, he'd never quite succeeded.  
  
He feels a pang of something as he thinks again of Wilson, he thinks it might be loss.  
  
When he retires to bed that night he picks up a trashy magazine to read from the pile he'd purchased at the airport. A card falls out of the magazine and he stares at it, he'd chucked that it with the magazines, intending to send it to Wilson when he reached his destination, or not - he hadn't decided.  
  
It's a silly 'get well' card, with a picture of a teddy bear on the front with a bandaged paw.  
  
He opens the card and stares at the blankness inside, thinking that this is the last time he will ever communicate with Wilson. He should write down everything Wilson has meant to him, everything he could never tell Wilson to his face.  
  
After a long time he picks up his pen and scrawls 'sorry' over the blank surface.  
  
He'll post it tomorrow, or maybe he won't.


	3. Written by Flywoman

After knocking and calling for nearly two minutes, hearing the faint tones of "Dancing Queen" repeat themselves on the other side of the door, Wilson lets himself into House's apartment. He finds his friend face down on the floor next to a puddle of amber vomit, a thick glass rolled several inches away from his outstretched hand. From the position of his torso and tangled limbs, House had been sitting in a chair by the window when he collapsed.  
  
Wilson rolls House over and sees blood and pus seeping through the bandage on his thigh. His pulse is weak and thready, and when Wilson peels back an eyelid, his pupils are pinpoints.  
  
***  
  
In the ambulance on the way to Princeton General, House's head stirs feebly against his hand. Wilson leans over to listen and hears House mumbling something about going down to the water again. It's only then that he notices the tears running down his cheeks and dripping onto House's cracked lips.  
  
"If you survive this," Wilson whispers fiercely, "I'm going to fucking _kill_ you."


	4. Written by Menolly

There isn't much point trying to lie to the ER doctors at Princeton General. They all know who House is, and he has to tell them about the suspected overdose, the alcohol, the re-opened surgical site on his leg. The doctors refrain from comment but Wilson knows, he knows what everyone thinks of his friend. He knows what this looks like.  
  
He'd heard on the hospital grapevine about House's confrontation with Cuddy in the corridor. He'd been hoping that they would have a conversation, a chance for House to tell her how hurt he is, how devastated by their breakup. But then he'd heard that there'd been some altercation with his patient, and he'd received notice that she'd agreed to treatment for her cancer.  She'd chosen her life over her gift, a choice that House had tried to make with Cuddy.  
  
He'd gone to House's apartment, hoping to drag him out somewhere to talk to him, to try and help.  
  
Now he sits on a chair by House's bedside and waits. It seems sometimes that he spends half his life waiting for House to wake up. House hasn't been officially placed on suicide watch, Wilson had persuaded them to enter it as 'accidental overdose' but Wilson isn't sure he's made the right move. He hopes that House hadn't been trying to end it, had just drank and swallowed pills to make his pain go away. But he's not sure himself, the memory of that Christmas Eve a few years ago haunts him, he'd thought it to be an accident then, but a trail of House self destructiveness in the years since has left him unsure. He thinks of the leap into the pool, so far below, the experimental drug treatment, House sitting in a bathtub and cutting his own leg open. He wonders if House has slipped away from him, gone to a place where no-one can help.  
  
His thoughts are interrupted by a sound from the bed, House is waking up.


	5. Written by Flywoman

As Wilson watches, House extends his arm weakly, and his fingers curl as if reaching for something. Spurred by a sudden impulse, Wilson doesn’t wait to question it but slips his own fingers into the other man’s hand. To his considerable surprise, House raises them to his pursed lips, his throat contracting in a swallow, and then lets his arm settle back down at his side.  
  
“House,” Wilson says sharply when he has recovered enough to speak, “Are you all right?”  
  
House’s eyes are open, but he is staring off at some point beyond Wilson’s shoulder. He feels a chill and fights the urge to look behind him. “House?”  
  
“No thanks,” House says quite casually. “I think I’ve had enough for tonight.”  
  
Wilson leans forward, really worried now, and snaps his fingers in front of the other man’s face. House blinks reflexively but otherwise does not react. “House?”  
House’s lips curve in an eerily serene smile. “No, I don’t think I’m ready to go home just yet.”


	6. Written by Menolly

"They're running tests." Wilson says dully, sitting on a chair in Princeton Generals' cafeteria, Cuddy across from him.  
  
House hadn't said anything further, had just kept staring off into space dreamily, not responding to Wilson or to the doctors at all. Wherever he was in his mind it clearly wasn't in a hospital bed in Princeton. Wilson knows that after the tests have been concluded the hospitals' psychiatrist would be called in to consult, and he knows what he will recommend. He can see the progression as clear as day, another long drive to Mayfield, more weeks or months without House. He'd lost a brother to mental illness, was he going to lose this man who meant so much more to him as well?  
  
Cuddy clutches a cup of coffee in her hands, her face pale and strained.  
  
"I should never have started anything with him."  
  
No, you shouldn't, Wilson thinks, not unless you were prepared to put everything you had into it, to not hold anything back, to trust him, with yourself and your daughter and love him and accept him for all faults. Not if you were going to spend the entire time you were together looking for a reason to end it.  Not if you regretted loving him.  
  
"House made his own choice to go back on the Vicodin, and stay on it, and take ridiculous amounts. You aren't to blame for that," he says instead, because that part of it had been House's decision, and his responsibility.  
  
"Do you think he was trying to..." she trails off. Wilson knows she won't say it, neither of them will say it.  
  
"I don't know, and it hardly matters now does it? We just need to see him through this."  
  
"Wilson, I...I can't. I'm sorry, but I need to move on with my life. This just confirms it, I can't deal with this anymore. Rachel and I need a fresh start. I've accepted an offer from another hospital. I'm telling the Board tomorrow, I'll be gone in a month."  
  
Wilson nods, one more shock on this night hardly registering with him. He stirs his cold coffee. Moving on. He can't do that. There is a man in a hospital bed who needs him, and Wilson is all he has now. And, truthfully, apart from a diabetic cat, he is all Wilson has.


	7. Written by luridlurker

When Wilson comes back from the cafeteria, still troubled about the news he heard, he finds an older woman standing at the foot of House's bed, flipping pages in his file.  
  
"Dr. de Frees," Wilson greets the ER's department head.  
  
He receives a somber look and a nod in return, her concentration on what seems to be a computer print out with lab data. "Liver enzymes," she says.  
  
"They'll be up, of course. How much?" Wilson asks, folding his arms in front of his chest, fortifying himself for the answer.  
  
"Transferases up a bit but not that much over normal. No bilirubin. Seems he gets away with it once more." She flicks her hand at the IV bag connected to the central venous catheter under House's clavicle, knowing she hasn't to explain more to her colleague.  
  
Wilson eyes the bag of N-acetylcysteine with relief. It meant, House hadn't managed to poisoning his liver into failure with his recent Vicodin abuse. There was at least that, something good to hold on to after the craziness of the last days.  
  
De Frees looks up to him again. "You must decide where you want him to go for detox, Dr. Wilson. I assume you do want him to detox?" When Wilson nods, she continues, "When he's clean of all opiates, his mental status will be re-evaluated. If the psychosis has receded, fine, if not..." The shrugs slightly. "We can do it here in General's psych ward, or you might want to find some specialized establishment with more privacy. Best somewhere were he can stay afterwards as well. Dr. Rossi's recommendations." She hands over a sheet of paper and Wilson takes it with trepidation as she speaks on, "Whatever you decide, do it quickly; as soon as the withdrawal symptoms start I won't let you move him anymore."  
  
Nodding again, Wilson wants to say appropriate words of thanks but his throat is closed shut. The veteran physician must have seen his predicament because she touches his arm slightly. "House's a cat with nine lives. Courage, Dr. Wilson." She closes the curtains behind her when she leaves, giving them an illusion of privacy.  
  
Wilson reads the psychiatrist's recommendations—how similar to the one at that other time, and right on spot with what he had expected. Out of sheer habit, Wilson briefly feels the urge to call Cuddy and discuss it with her, realizing right on the other side of the thought that from now on all decisions will be his alone. He had recognized earlier that there was no moving on from House, so he better got his wits together and do what was best for them both.  
  
Getting on his feet again, Wilson busies himself for a minute with checking the IV tubes and the stats on the monitors before sitting down on the very edge of the firm rubber mattress, studying the worn face of his best friend that shows all the hardships he had gone through in his life, all the fights he had lost. The only movement at all is the visible twitching of House's eyeballs, busy with dreaming, under bruised looking eye lids.  
  
"What do you see, House? How far have you run this time to get away from the pain?" he asks his sleeping friend. "I don't want to take this decision out of your hands. But you don't seem to accept calls where ever you are in the moment. I'm just glad it doesn't seem to be a nightmare," he adds, noticing the slight upward drawn corners of his friend's lips. Unhurriedly he takes a wipe and dabs away the drool on his friend's chin. His hand lingers for a last moment on House's muscular shoulder in a fleeting, furtive caress before he pulls out his cell phone.


	8. Written by damigella

He has had the number in his cellphone's memory since a few days after House's desperate phone call from Mayfield, the one when he wasn't allowed to reach out to him. He decided he would give the Mayfield method a try, but only one. Because they were trying experiments on House's body and mind, equally endangering his physical and psychical balance. House. His heart feels a squeeze at the thought of how much pain had already wrecked his life. And now that he is his only remaining connection, he's supposed to put him through that again? No way.  
  
He steps out briefly in the corridor - House may not be able to make sense of what he hears, but there's no point risking.  
  
"Dr. Ribeira? James Wilson speaking. You remember our previous discussion? The patient is now ready for detoxing. Are you willing to accept him in your program?"  
  
"No, he hasn't regained consciousness yet. But I'm his medical proxy and have his power of attorney, I can sign all the paperwork.  
  
"Yes, of course. I have already cleared this with my bank. There will be no problem."  
  
"I'll wait for you here. I'll make sure all his stuff is packed."  
  
He closes the cellphone and draws a deep breath. Like Stacy, he has taken a medical decision on behalf of House. At least he hasn't directly decided against his wishes. He can only hope that he has done it right, and that Dr. Ribeira's soft detox protocol (allowing for a gradual decrease in opiates level, together with small doses of morphine for breakthrough pain) will be less painful for House to go through.  
  
At least, this time he'll be allowed to be with House. He has already requested long overdue vacation days, and the room he has booked has a comfortable cot near the hospital bed.  
  
He walks back into the room. House's face looks smooth, almost happy. His eyes are open, staring in the distance, seeing who knows what. Wilson moves his hand in front of them, but there's no reaction. Quietly, he says "House."  
  
Again no reaction. "House, we're going to have a vacation together." The only answer is the dull, painful throbbing of his own heart.


	9. Written by Menolly

House sits on the sand and watches the ocean. It's beautiful on the beach today, as it is every day. The sun is warm on his back,  the sounds of the ocean are calming and best of all his leg doesn't hurt much. Usually it doesn't hurt at all but today there is a little twinge, nothing compared to the usual roaring pain that he experiences. He should have done this a long time ago,  this place is paradise.  
  
He doesn't miss the hospital, or Princeton, or his work. There's a piano in the bar, and he plays that to pick up some loose change. The only thing he misses, the only person he misses is Wilson.  
  
He has tried to block out the thought of his friend from his mind. The last time he saw him was outside Cuddy's house, holding his injured wrist. He never sent the 'get well' card he bought at the airport to Wilson, Wilson won't ever want to see him again, not after what House did, not after House hurt him. House has tried to forget him but he can't quite manage it.  
  
Even now he thinks he can hear his voice, saying something that House can't quite hear. Probably telling him to put sunscreen on, or wear a hat or something equally mother-hennish. He even turns his head, looking for the source of the voice but there's nothing there.  
  
He shrugs and goes on watching the ocean. Wilson isn't here.


	10. Written by damigella

Wilson looks at Dr. Ribeira, and wonders whether he screwed up the major decision of his life. Whether he should have followed Foreman's advice, Chase's advice, and sent House back to Mayfield. He had even asked Cuddy, and she had said the same, sadness deep in her eyes. And yet he couldn't face abandoning him. Whatever would happen, they'd face it together this time.  
  
"Dr. Wilson, did you hear me? I said we started the protocol, and so far he's responding well."  
  
"I didn't notice any response, really. Or any change."  
  
"I meant that he doesn't seem to be in increased pain, although we significantly lowered the opiate level in his bloodstream."  
  
"That's true. How long do you think this will take?" Not that he's in a hurry. He'll take a leave of absence if he has to.  
  
"It's difficult to say. But some small improvements should be detectable soon."  
  
Wilson thinks of the previous evening. He had been talking to House, as they told him to do. Watching soap operas and monster truck rallies together, playing his favorite music, ordering in and eating in his presence his favorite foods. And suddenly, for a moment, his friend had turned to him, his eyes looking at him as they used to do. But it had been just a moment, and then he had turned away, shrugging.  
  
"There have been some small ones. Too small."  
  
Wilson jumps when Dr. Ribeira's hand unexpectedly touches, than holds his. Tears have clouded his vision, and he rubs them away impatiently with his other hand.  
  
"I'm so sorry for your partner, Dr. Wilson."  
  
Wilson almost automatically starts contradicting, but then he closes his mouth before saying a word. There are feelings he should figure out before House becomes conscious again. If he ever will be.  
  
  



	11. Written by Menolly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House's POV

It's overcast today, the sun is hiding behind the clouds and only coming out occasionally, it's the first day that there hasn't been a clear sky since he got here. The temperature is a little cooler and his leg aches a little more.  
  
He hears a noise beside him and when he turns his head Wilson is sitting next to him. He didn't hear him approach but it seems right that he's sitting there.  
  
He expects Wilson to start lecturing him, to berate, to scold. Instead Wilson slips an arm around his shoulders. House is surprised but leans in towards him, allowing Wilson to draw him in, to offer comfort.  
  
"I didn't think you'd come." House says, feeling small besides Wilson.  
  
"Why wouldn't I come, House? I love you. I've always loved you, you know that."  
  
House basks in the words. He's loved Wilson for a long time, but he's never been able to tell him that. Here, it's easy to say how he feels.  
  
"Are you ready to come home yet House?" Wilson asks, brushing one hand through House's hair, soothing.  
  
"I want to stay here. I want you to stay with me, I want this to last."  
  
They sit for a while longer on the beach, House sitting in the curve of Wilson's arm, protected and safe, after a time he dozes.  
  
When he wakes up the sun has come out and the temperature has risen, it's another perfect day in paradise.  
  
Wilson is gone.


	12. Written by damigella

"Okay, Dr. Wilson, we're going to try a different strategy today. In the moment he's opiates-free, or close to. We'll have about two hours when his pain will be managed by OTC analgesics only. We want you try and touch him as well as speak to him."  
  
Wilson looks at Dr. Ribeira like she's gone crazy. "Touch him how?"  
  
"Well, whatever you used to do. Nothing sexual of course. Hug him. Lie in bed with him. Whatever you would normally do to show your affection. I'll leave you alone. I'll be back in two hours for the next round of opiates."  
  
She's gone before Wilson can find the courage to explain that he never hugged House. He never was his boyfriend. Then he looks at him. He's shivering, and seems in pain.  
  
Wilson gulps, and decides to try. He gently pushes House sideways (he's become so thin it's almost too easy) and lies near him on the bed, puts an arm around his shoulders.  
  
House doesn't speak, but he must sense he's there: he turns towards Wilson and cuddles up to him, his face nested on Wilson's shoulder, so that Wilson can feel his breath on his Adam's apple. Now its' his turn to shiver, as his brain and his body fight to define what he feels in this moment. Time goes by. Wilson knows he's supposed to speak, but he doesn't know what to say. He feels it's hard enough to keep breathing.  
  
And then, incredibly, House says something reasonable. "I didn't think you'd come."  
  
Words come from Wilson's mouth that surprise him probably more than they surprise his friend.  
  
"Why wouldn't I come, House? I love you. I've always loved you, you know that."  
  
House smiles, and nestles closer. Now Wilson has found words, and he can't stop talking. He tells House about all the beautiful moments they had together. The takeaway dinners and the TV marathons and the pranks and the laughter and the joy and the sadness they shared. His hands play in the graying locks, already much thinned out on the crown, and he finally cups his friend's face, looks in the empty blue eyes, and whispers "I love you, and I'm waiting for you. Are you ready to come home yet, House?"  
  
There's no answer. But when he takes House's hand, he has the impression that for a moment, for a moment only, House squeezes back. He keeps talking and caressing until Dr. Ribeira comes with the morphine shot.


	13. Written by Menolly

It's overcast almost all the time now, and his leg is aching more every day. He mourns the loss of the pain free, idyllic existence on the beach, but gratefully accepts Wilson's increasing presence. Wilson is here most of the day now, he talks to House, about the good times they have shared, makes promises of the things they can do again one day, if House decides to leave the beach.  House knows that this Wilson isn't real, because the real Wilson would never hold him close, would never touch him the way that this Wilson does. He knows this Wilson isn't real so he's happy to snuggle up to him, to let himself be comforted, to sit safe in the curve of this Wilson's arm.  
  
Today is particularly cloudy, and his leg is really aching as he sits in the sand, watching the waves. He feels restless, uneasy, it's like the edges of the beach are blurring, and there's something just beyond the horizon but he can't quite see it. When he looks to his right he sees Wilson standing there, a smile on his face.  
  
"Hi, House. Are your ready to come home yet? I really wish you would, I miss you."  
  
He looks back at the ocean waves, and then up at Wilson, standing above him. Wilson is looking relaxed today, in casual clothes not his work clothes. He wants Wilson to sit down, to settle beside him and hold him and watch the waves with him, he doesn't want to leave this place.  
  
"I'm afraid," he whispers to Wilson. "I'm afraid of leaving, I'm afraid of the pain."  
  
Wilson crouches down beside him, looks into his eyes and smiles.  
  
"I know you are House, but you can't stay here forever. Come with me and I'll show you the way."  
  
Wilson puts his hand out, and House stares at it and then slowly latches on. He's  pulled to his feet but Wilson doesn't let go of his hand.  
  
They walk down the beach as the sky darkens around them and the sounds of the ocean fade away.


	14. Written by Flywoman

"How has he been doing?" Dr. Ribeira asks with an approving glance that takes in Wilson sitting, legs stretched out before him, on the bed and House pressed up against his side with his heavy head resting on his friend's shoulder.  
  
Wilson flushes and has to fight the urge to scoot apart from House, although he doesn't relinquish his hold on his hand. "He's been talking," he tells her. "He even told me that he didn't think I would come." He doesn't tell her how he had responded.  
  
"Really?" she says, smiling. "So he recognizes that you're here with him? That's excellent news." She reaches for the IV, intending to disconnect the drip from the cannula so that she can deliver the morphine.  
  
"Wait." The words leave Wilson's mouth before he can stop them.  
  
She pauses and turns towards him, eyebrows drawing together in a slight frown. "Yes?"  
  
"I think..." Wilson takes a deep breath. "I think that he's close, very close, to coming back. I wonder if we could wait just a little longer?"


	15. Written by damigella

House knows this is an illusion, it has to be. But at least until now it was a good illusion. Now he’s lying in bed with Wilson, and it’s cold and his leg hurts and the wind blows outside. The pain is not terrible, actually - it’s more like the kind he used to live with.  
  
The good thing is that the feeling of Wilson hugging him is incredibly real. There are so many little details that he’s surprised his brain can orchestrate right: Wilson’s heartbeat against his chest, his warmth all over his body, his breath over his face, and is it a beginning hard-on that’s pressing against his left thigh?  
  
House feels himself become hard, as the wind becomes quiet outside, and he focuses on the voice whispering in his ear “Please come back to me, House. Please. I’ve been waiting for you so long. I want you back. Once you’re back we’ll make sure you don’t hurt anymore, but I need you. Please.”  
  
That’s a very different hallucination, but a very pleasant one as well. House enjoys the warmth, and he slips a hand to touch Wilson. Definitely a hard-on, and Wilson’s body against him goes rigid for a moment, than relaxes again as House's hand quietly rests on his engorged member.  
  
“Is this what you want, House? Is it? Do you want me to touch you, too?” There’s anxiety in Wilson’s voice, and this is strange, because despite the pain House feels happy and relaxed. This is a wonderful hallucination, and his opinion becomes more decided when he squeezes Wilson, and an uncertain hand covers his own crotch, then slowly start stroking him through his pants.  
  
“House, come back. Please. I’ll do anything you want, but come back.” House is slightly annoyed by the voice now. Why should he go back, when the hallucination’s so good? And then he thinks there’s an easy way to make the voice stop. Without opening his eyes, his mouth follows the warmth breath, his nose the delicate smell of toothpaste, and soon he’s kissing Wilson, and Wilson’s kissing back and OhMyGod this is the best hallucination ever, his brain obviously remembers Bonnie’s words and this is better than any hooker he’s ever tried and he wishes it would never end, lost in pleasure.  
  
Suddenly his mouth is empty, and Wilson’s shouting “House, you’re there with me, wake up! Wake up!”  
  
Shocked, he open his eyes and his blood runs cold: this is _reality_ , and Wilson smiles at him and whispers “Please, House, tell me you’re back now, please. We can do this anytime you want, just come back,” before kissing him again.


	16. Written by Menolly

Wilson is kissing him, and this is real. It felt so good a moment ago, but now it just feels wrong. What the fuck is going on? He shoves Wilson away, and Wilson is saying something but he just can't focus on that. He looks around. He's on a bed in some posh hospital room. Not Mayfield, that's for sure. There's expensive furnishing, luxury appointments and there's even fucking aromatherapy candles burning on a small table by the TV. Some New Age place Wilson has taken him to detox.

He can't think, his head is full of cotton-wool, his heart racing. He remembers taking some pills and some booze and hoping he'd never wake up. Then there's fragments of dreams, smashing his car into Cuddy's place? A beach? And Wilson. He looks back at Wilson, and Wilson is looking at him with those big brown eyes, and doing some sort of soothing thing with his hands.

He needs to get out of here, wherever the fuck this is. He moves to the edge of the bed, goes to stand and damn, his body is weak and useless and he collapses to the ground. He feels something rip out of his arm, and then there's blood and Wilson is yelling something. How long has he been here? Muscle weakness from disuse he diagnoses, and where the hell is his cane?

Now Wilson's hands are all over him and he tries to push him off and crawl towards the door but he can't, he's too weak, and Wilson is too there and it's all too much and to his horror he feels tears coming out of his eyes.

Wilson is holding him tightly now, hugging him against his chest and House can't stop crying and he doesn't know what the fuck is going on, or why he's crying and he can't even damn well think.

"Why the fuck didn't you let me die you bastard?" he yells out between the sobs, and Wilson holds him tight and presses his face against his hair.

"Because I love you too fucking much, House."


	17. Written by Flywoman

Wilson wishes that he could withdraw the words the moment they leave his mouth.  
  
His best friend is going to pieces in his arms, and it's all he can do to hold himself together. His mind can barely stagger on under the weight of the implications. It wasn't just an accidental overdose - House had had enough and had been trying to leave this world forever, to leave him stranded here, lost and alone. And whatever House had experienced in his hallucinations during the last few hours of detox, he clearly hadn't known that Wilson was here with him after all.  
  
Clasping House tightly to his chest, Wilson goes hot with shame. What the hell had he been thinking, kissing House, _groping_ him for God's sake? Sure, House had been responding to his touch, and even initiated the... but he must have thought that he was with someone else. He tries to remember exactly what House had said to him. "I didn't think you'd come." "I want you to stay with me." He'd only assumed that House knew that it was him because that was what he'd _wanted_ to believe. For all he knows, House had been fantasizing that Cuddy had come after him and all had been forgiven. He is an _idiot_.  
  
"Idiot." For a second he thinks that he's spoken the word out loud, but then he realizes that House is no longer struggling like a wounded animal, that his choking sobs have eased and he has bent forward to rest his forehead on Wilson's shoulder. "You _idiot_ ," he mumbles into Wilson's neck, and his body expands and contracts in a shuddering sigh.


	18. Written by Menolly

House feels himself calming in Wilson's strong embrace. It's not something he would normally allow, but given that that Wilson has apparently been cuddling up to him in bed for some unknown period of time, it can't hurt to indulge himself for a few minutes. He's aware that as he's calming Wilson is quietly freaking out, he can almost feel the guilty thoughts squirreling around Wilson's head. Wilson has an uncanny ability to try and assume responsibility for all the ills of the world.  
  
"You idiot," he mumbles at Wilson, his head resting on Wilson's shoulder. He feels Wilson tense underneath him.  
  
"When are you going to learn you can't fix everything Wilson? Sometimes you should just walk away. You should have left me there, or dumped me at Mayfield and got on with your life. Instead you bring me here," he looks around again, he bets this place cost most of Wilson's salary for the last six months. Even as he says it he's glad that Wilson didn't, he still has nightmares from detoxing in Mayfield last time, strapped to a bed and screaming in pain. Whatever they've been doing here has to have been better than that.  
  
Wilson is fussing over his arm, when he tried to get off the bed the needle ripped out of his arm and now there's blood trickling all over the expensively tiled floor.  
  
House tries to push away from Wilson, to stand, but without his cane it's impossible and he finally growls at Wilson to help the cripple up from the floor.  
  
Wilson hauls him to his feet and they stagger to the bed and House is dropped back onto it. He lies still as Wilson fetches some medical supplies to see to his arm.  
  
"What happened?" he asks, as the first step in trying to sort out whatever the hell is going on. Wilson bends over his arm but won't look at him.  
  
"You overdosed, I found you, took you to Princeton General. When you regained consciousness, you were hallucinating apparently, you were talking to people who weren't there, wouldn't respond to anyone. They recommended you be detoxed, see if that resolved the problem. I brought you here, and they've had you on a morphine drip with the dosages gradually reducing, you've been opiate free for a few hours now."  
  
He can remember some of his dreams, crashing a car into Cuddy's place (he really hoped that bit was a dream) and then being on a beach, and then Wilson coming up to him, Wilson holding him, Wilson stroking his hair and telling him how much he loved him. Just a dream then, an hallucination.  
  
"And while I've been in cloud cuckoo land you've been cuddling up to me? Is this some sort of new alternative therapy? Of course you have a history of getting it on with your patients..."  
  
"House!" Finally Wilson looks at him and there's anger, and confusion, and guilt written all over his face. "Just shut up okay, just shut the hell up."


	19. Written by Flywoman

House hesitates for a split second, weighing his confusion and curiosity against the possibility that, if he gets any tenser, Wilson might actually implode. As usual, curiosity wins out. "No, I don't think so. Of course, you could probably overpower me and stick your tongue down my throat again. That might do the trick."  
  
Wilson is bright red and obviously on the verge of tears."It's not what you think."  
  
"Really? Because I think that while I was _non compos mentis_ , you were experimenting with a little mutual masturbation. Was I imagining that? You'll have to tell me, because seeing as how the last thing I remember was being on a tropical beach, I'm probably not a reliable witness."  
  
"I-"  
  
"Of course, since if I'm right, you very recently and inexplicably had your hand down my pants, I'm thinking that your testimony isn't particularly trustworthy either."  
  
 _"House."_ Wilson makes a strangled sound. "Just give me a minute, I am _trying_ to explain-"  
  
He sinks back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted, as Wilson scrubs a hand over his face, biting his lower lip. "It _was_ a kind of therapy. I think."  
  
House smirks. He'd break into a belly laugh if he weren't so tired. "Oh yeah, that was very convincing."  
  
Wilson snaps his head up. "I'm _serious_ ," he says in an aggrieved tone. "Your doctor instructed me to sit with you, to hold your hand-"  
  
"If you thought that was my _hand_ , I think a new optometrist might be in order."  
  
"That was-" Wilson stops, inhales deeply, and then lets the breath out in a shaky sigh. "That was a mistake. And I know how stupid this is gonna sound, but... you kissed me first."  
  
House feels the blood drain from his face. He had. Of course he had.  
  
"Why did you do that?" Wilson asks. He seems to be bracing himself for bad news, digging the fingernails of one hand into the opposite palm. "Who did you think I was?"


	20. Written by Menolly

House stares at his friend, this man who has stuck with him for so long, whose friendship he values so much that he risked his life to preserve it. It has been a secret fantasy of his for years, to have Wilson in his bed, a fantasy he had always thought to be unobtainable, just as the fantasy of a relationship with Cuddy was. Now he no longer has Cuddy, he's lost his friendship with her, as well as the dream. He's hurt her, and she's hurt him, and the pain of that led him to take experimental drugs, operate on his own leg, overdose and then hallucinate for three weeks.  
  
Wilson stands there, open and vulnerable in this moment, waiting for House to shatter his hope. One word and he can have Wilson. One word could send them along the same path as he and Cuddy took, and by the end of that House will truly be alone.  
  
He can't do it, he can't do it to Wilson, he can't do it to himself. He can't take the risk of their friendship ending as his friendship with Cuddy has ended. Wilson will be embarrassed for a while but he'll get over it.  
  
"Hookers," he says, "I thought I was with a succession of hookers, with enormous hooters. They did pole dances for me on the sand. One of them looked a bit like you. Drugs, sex and rock and roll, that's what I had on the beach. When one of them started massaging my nuts I woke up back here, sound medical strategy Wilson, you should publish. Or tell Foreman, he might step up from nipple twists."  
  
He ignores the stunned look on his friend's face and settles back on the bed, pretending a good humor he doesn't feel.  
  
"Now, how do I get room service around here? And drugs, my leg feels like someone is sawing it off. And do they have cable? I have three weeks worth of soap and porn to catch up on."


	21. Written by pgrabia

Wilson doesn’t answer.  He doesn’t know what to say.  He had expected House to say that he’d thought he’d been with Cuddy; that would have been hard enough to hear, but not unexpected.  To hear him so cavalierly declare that those moments of intimacy had meant nothing more than impersonal gratification hurt Wilson to the quick.  House had been so affectionate, so trusting.  He’d seemed to open his soul and make himself vulnerable despite the fact that he hadn’t quite been in his right mind at the time.  
  
He simply refuses to believe that House is telling him the truth.  _But why would he lie?_ Wilson asks himself as he stares at a smirking House laid out so casually like this is nothing important.  There is something in those beautiful blue eyes of his, something that gives Wilson the feeling that House is afraid and is trying to divert his attention from the truth…but what is that truth?  
  
Then Wilson realizes what is going on.  The last relationship House had been in had been something his friend had wanted for a long time, or at least thought he wanted, and it had failed miserably.  House doesn’t believe he deserves to be happy, Wilson knows, and runs away when he’s afraid of getting hurt.  
  
Or hurting someone else.  
  
“No.”  Wilson places his hands on his hips out of habit but he’s serious as hell.  “I don’t believe you.  You know, you know what I think House?”  
  
“What?” House asks, appearing bored—but bored eyes don’t avoid Wilson’s like House’s are now.  
  
Wilson wants to smile but refrains.  “I think you’re lying.  You weren’t thinking about hookers…you would never be so intimate and trusting with a hooker.  You had difficulty trusting Cuddy that much when the two of you were sleeping together.  No…you thought that you were with _me_ all along!”  
  
House scoffs at that but Wilson sees through it now, sees the nearly imperceptible swallow House takes, the increased fiddling with the blanket with his long, tapered fingers, the nervous tick, nearly imperceptible to anyone but Wilson who had been studying the man for twenty years.  He’s right—he knows he’s right.  
  
“I hate to burst your bubble, Wilson—” House begins to say but Wilson hears none of it.  He closes the distance between them; before House can stop him,  he grabs House behind the head and pulls him into the most passionate, emotion-filled, hungry kiss he has ever given anyone.  As House fights him Wilson persists, using his weight and height to House’s disadvantage.  After a few seconds House stops resisting and a second after that one hand grabs Wilson’s collar and pulls him closer as his other arm snakes around Wilson’s waist, embracing him.  Wilson’s arms follow suit; he climbs onto the bed with House, over him.  
  
They break for breath and Wilson stares down into two dazed, love-struck eyes staring back at him.  
  
“You were saying?” Wilson asks with a smug little smile.


	22. Written by cellista_in_c

“Wilson,” House murmurs, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone. Wilson closes his eyes, reveling in the touch, in the feel of House's body. Knees pressed against either side of House's hips, he ducks his head to press his nose to House's neck and inhale his scent. He smiles, feeling a glow of warm triumph at having finally gotten House back and awake and _wanting_ under him.  
  
“House,” he murmurs back, raising his head to seek out House's mouth for another kiss. “I'm so glad we're finally here, I've wanted...”  
  
And then the world takes a sudden confusing turn, ending with a hard thump as Wilson abruptly finds himself sprawled on the floor. He struggles to sit up, grimacing at a painful twinge from his elbow, and looks up to see House glaring down at him with furious eyes.  
  
“Get out.”  
  
“What? No, House!” Wilson scrambles to his feet, hugging his elbow. “Look, just stop it, stop fighting -”  
  
“No, you stop!” House rises to his own feet, swaying a little. When Wilson reaches out to steady him House slaps his hand away.  
  
“You're over the line,” House continues in a low voice.  
  
“ _I'm_ over the line? You, _you're_ saying _I'm_ over the line?” Wilson scoffs. “You're just afraid and running from this, afraid of your own feelings -”  
  
“I don't want this,” House says flatly, and Wilson stops in mid-tirade. Angry words, yelling, he would have expected that, but House is not even looking at him, no emotion in his voice.  
  
“I'm sure you thought you were doing the right thing, but this time you're wrong. I don't want...I just want to be friends. Anything more, it's not worth it.”  
  
“House...you're an idiot,” Wilson says, his voice just as quiet. “It is. Don't push me away like this, it's too late to pretend like neither of us knows -”  
  
“I'm not pretending anything,” House snaps. “You're lonely, desperate, fine...but get your kicks somewhere else. And get the hell out of my room.”  
  
“House -” Wilson shakes his head, reaching out to – he doesn't know, to touch him, to shake him, to throw him back down on the bed and kiss him into submission, but House shies away from him.  
  
“GET OUT!”  
  
“Doctors?”  
  
A nurse is standing at the door, looking between them with a concerned look.  
  
“I want him out of my room,” House snaps at her. “I've got some rights as a patient here, don't I?”  
  
“I...yes, you do. But...I...Dr. Wilson?” She gives him an anxious, regretful look.  
  
“Fine,” says Wilson, pressing his lips into a thin line as he meets House's eyes. “But I'm not going anywhere House. I'll be back.”  
  
He brushes by the nurse as he leaves the room, stomach churning. Behind him he can hear the nurse speaking in a placating tone as House's raised voice demands discharge forms.


	23. Written by pgrabia

Wilson barely makes it to his car before he begins to sob.  He leans forward against the steering wheel and hides his face in his arms.  How could he have read things so poorly?  He’d been so certain that House had been bluffing and was trying to push him away out of fear.  He had surrendered to the kiss, kissed back, pulled him close.  Why?  Why respond to the kiss the way House did only to shove Wilson away and insist that he leave?  Was it to mock him—to catch him off guard?  It doesn’t make sense to him.  
  
Once the sobs begin to abate Wilson sits back in his seat, too despondent to bother wiping his face dry.  That’s it, then.  His poor judgment in revealing his true feelings for his best friend has destroyed their friendship.  Wilson knows that there is no way either one of them can forget this and pretend that it never happened; there is no going back.  Wilson is tired of waiting for House to come around and realize that he loves him.  It has become apparent that it will never happen.  
  
There is no question in Wilson’s mind that he doesn’t want another relationship with anyone else.  He is done; he has ruined everything.  The worst part is that he would normally go and commiserate with House over a broken heart but since this time House is the cause of his pain he has no one to turn to for comfort.  Wilson realizes that he is truly all alone.  
  
He drives to one of his favorite watering holes, and when he gets there he can’t recall the drive itself.  It doesn’t matter—nothing matters.  Wilson pulls up a stool at the bar and waves the bartender over.  He pulls out a credit card and holds it and his car keys out to the barkeep.  
  
“I plan on getting _very_ drunk,” Wilson explains.  “If you call me a cab and make certain I get into it there’s an extra twenty bucks in it for you.  I’ll be back eventually to get my keys.  Understand?”  
  
The bartender nods with a hint of a smile and takes the card and keys, sticking both into the back of the cash register tray for safe keeping.  
  
“So what’s your pleasure?” he asks Wilson.  
  
“Nothing,” is the morose reply.  “But I’ll have a double scotch, neat, and keep them coming.  If I leave here still capable of feeling anything you can kiss your tip bye-bye.”  
  
A few moments later a glass with two fingers of liquid comfort is set in front of Wilson.  Without further delay Wilson downs the scotch in three swallows, focusing on the smooth burn of the single malt as it slides down his gullet.  He sets the glass down and signals for another, and then a third.  He’s feeling number but is no way near as senseless as he wants to be.  
  
 _Dead_ , Wilson says silently to his empty glass. _I want to feel dead._


	24. Written by Menolly

House's anger sustains him through his battle with Doctor Ribeira over his discharge. She wants him to stay for a while, explore alternative pain management options and undergo counseling. He makes a few pointed comments about what she encouraged Wilson to do, and her assumption that they were partners, and grabs the discharge forms from her. The total of the account gives him pause, Wilson has paid dearly to put House into this gilded cage for three weeks. He feels a twinge of guilt at his dismissal of the man but stuffs it down. This will be better in the long run, for both of them.  
  
It's a long trip home in the back of a cab and he's exhausted by the time he weaves his way to the front door, he can feel the eyes of the driver on him but luckily for the man he doesn't offer any help.  
  
The apartment is quiet, cold, and lonely. House looks around and imagines himself lying comatose on the floor, Wilson rushing in and rolling him over, calling 911 in panic, the ambulance arriving. He doesn't know if he wishes Wilson had never come, that he'd been allowed to slip quietly away. Would Wilson be better off if he died? Or would he give in to the depression that he too battled against  - although he hid it from others. House snorts, they're a fine pair between them, it was crazy to think that they'd be any good in a 'relationship'.  
  
He goes into the bedroom, collapses on the bed, one hand going to his leg and massaging his thigh. He fumbles in his bedside drawer, fishes out a bottle of Vicodin and stares at it. He takes one out and holds it between his fingers, trying to decide what to do.


	25. Written by Flywoman

His hand is arrested on the way to his mouth when his cell phone rings. Recognizing the ringtone at once, House closes his eyes. Even muffled by denim, the shrill notes are drilling themselves into his skull with their false good cheer. At last he sets the pill down on his bedside table and yanks the phone out of his back pocket. "Yeah."  
  
"Housh?" Wilson, as expected, and already well on his way to getting totally trashed from the sound of it.  
  
House rubs his thigh harder with a wince. "Yeah."  
  
"Wanna say... 'm shorry. _Sorry."_ Something mumbled then, that could have been anything, followed by a sickening thud and the clatter of the phone falling onto a hard surface.  
  
His heart literally skips a beat. "Wilson?"


	26. Written by pgrabia

There is no response from the other end of the line.   
  
“Wilson, are you there?” House asks, finding it hard to breathe.  When all he receives back is continued silence House forces himself off his bed, moving a little too quickly.  He becomes lightheaded, and reaches out to grab onto the table for support.  His pinky brushes the pill.  Once his spell passes, he looks down at it, still hearing the silence in his ear.  
  
“Later,” he mutters at the pill, as if it could hear him.  He draws his hand back without the pill and grabs his cane instead.  
  
House arrives at the loft in half the time it should have taken him to get there and parks his bike on the street.  He makes his way quickly to the building and inside the lobby in spite of the pain shrieking at him from his leg.  House punches the call button for the elevator several times and taps his cane impatiently as he waits for the car to arrive.  He doesn’t even know for certain that Wilson called from home but it’s the best bet to check first.  Even if Wilson has simply passed out from drink and nothing more is wrong with him it’s possible that he could vomit and aspirate on it, or could have hit his head in the fall and be bleeding intracranially.  If he had drank too much then he could be suffering alcohol toxicity with the breathing centers of his brain shutting down.  
  
Feeling nauseated by the thought of something being wrong with his best friend, House puts his hand out and leans against the wall for support.  The elevator arrives and he’s glad to see it empty.  He hurries on and punches the button for the top floor.  When he gets there he limp-runs to Wilson’s door and bangs on it.  
  
“Wilson?” he calls.  “Answer the door!”  
  
House bangs again and the door clicks open, having not been completely latched the last time it was closed.  Pushing his way in, he heads straight through the foyer and into the living area proper.  A quick search locates Wilson lying prone on the floor facing up near the kitchen island.  Hurrying to his side, House kneels painfully next to him and shakes him with a hand on his shoulder.  Wilson smells like a distillery.  
  
“Hey, wino, wake up,” House says, trying for a levity he doesn’t feel.  “Come on—I can’t carry you.  Wilson?”  Wilson fails to react in the slightest.  
  
Checking his radial and carotid pulses he finds them rapid, stringy.  House leans over Wilson’s mouth, listening for breath sounds watching for his chest to rise and fall.  His breathing is dangerously slow.  In fact, Wilson appears cyanotic; his perfect lips and well-manicured fingernails are tinged with blue.  His pupils check out contracted but reactive.  
  
House pulls out his cellphone and calls 9-1-1.


	27. Written by Menolly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House's POV

House sits in a chair by Wilson's bed, waiting for him to wake up. He is beyond exhausted, but he can't sleep, not even in the comfortable recliner chair the staff at Princeton General have provided.  
  
Wilson was stabilized in the emergency department here, and was out of danger. He'd come very close to dying, if he hadn't phoned House, if House hadn't gone over there...They had run a tox screen but it had come back clear of everything but excessive amounts of alcohol, which was at least a small relief. Wilson was an idiot who didn't know when to stop, and House intends to tell him that when he wakes up.  
  
A small part of him wonders if this isn't yet another Wilson manipulative scheme to get House to do what he wants, but another part remembers how many times he's done this to Wilson. Is this how Wilson felt, waiting by his bedside after his overdose?  
  
He studies the man in the bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, listening to his gentle snoring. He's worried for even their friendship after all that has happened, he's not sure if they can go back to just being friends. He's not sure if Wilson can put all this behind him, as House is doing.  
  
He shifts uncomfortably in the chair again, rubs at his leg. Suddenly he has a desperate urge to move to get away from his confused thoughts and feelings. He levers himself to his feet, grabs his cane and limps to the door.  
  
He casts a last look back at Wilson before leaving the room.


	28. Written by pgrabia

Wilson wakes up to find that he is alone in ICU, hooked up to every monitor possible, an IV, and a catheter in his urethra. He groans, a little from the illness and discomfort he feels but mostly because he realizes that someone—perhaps House—has found him in distress and has brought him here, but more so because House isn’t anywhere to be seen. He remembers how comforting it had been to wake up after donating part of his liver to find his best friend sitting in a chair next to his bed, keeping vigil. It had been a reminder to Wilson that in his own way House actually cared about him—just not enough to handle Wilson’s confession of love for him.

It is confirmation that he’s lost House for good.

Wilson rolls onto his side, very conscious of the tubes entering his body as he does. He wishes that he hadn’t been found and that he had been allowed to die. He is all alone now so what is the point?

As the day progresses, nurses come and go as they care for him, his intensivist visits to check on how he is doing and to quiz him on whether or not his alcohol overdose had been on purpose. Wilson refuses to answer or even acknowledge that he or anyone else has been by that day. He refuses to eat or drink when the meal trays arrive, despite the cajoling he receives from the nurses. 

The only person he wants to see and talk to is House. When alone he sobs a little into his pillow; otherwise he sleeps or ignores and most of all, tries not to think about losing House’s friendship. He’s not angry at House; a person cannot change their sexual orientation any more than they can their DNA.

A psychiatrist is consulted but Wilson refuses to acknowledge him. He’s placed on a 72 hour psych hold. When day three arrives he has refused to eat, drink or speak since admission. The intensivist orders that a feeding tube be inserted through his nose so they can feed him liquid nutrition; he’s lost a considerable amount of weight and the doctor is concerned. Still there is no visit from House. Wilson worries that House has gone back to the Vicodin and is drugged out somewhere, or dead.

He hears one nurse say, “He’s lost the will to live.” Wilson silently acknowledges that she’s right.

He gains some weight back and is transferred to a room in Psychiatry where he continues to refuse to eat. Wilson removes his feeding tube twice; they bind his hands.

On day seven he wakes up to see the angry, worried and frightened blue eyes of House glaring down at him. Wilson sighs, averts his gaze, and then closes his eyes.


End file.
